For a few moments last week, the mother of Parliaments, at home in her stately Westminster Palace, seemed perilously close to entering her second childhood. The first symptoms of retrogression became apparent as ultra-Conservative Sir Herbert Williams gawped in ruddy embarrassment at the wreckage of a broken egg lying before him in the House of Commons, its slithering yolk merging relentlessly with the green of the carpet. "Is it in order, Sir." a Labor member was demanding of the Speaker as Sir Herbert stared, "for an honorable Member to throw an egg...

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